X: The Temple of the Muses
TO older citizens the Wadsworth Atheneum has an especial and peculiar charm. Doubtless more recent residents also feel this attraction, but it is natural that to those who as children lived in its shadow, as it were, the appeal should be strongest.
Here we were wont to go on rainy afternoons to look at the illustrated papers in the reading room. In the historical society's quarters upstairs it used to give one a peculiar thrill to sit on the link of the chain which during the Revolution was stretched across the Hudson at West Point, and which we had read about in the "Boys of 'Seventy-Six." There was, too, a certain ghastly emotional experience to be derived from an inspection of the sword holes, just over the heart, in the waistcoat and shirt of Colonel Ledyard. Then there were those Saturday mornings spent with the good friend of all children in the weekly proceedings at the Atheneum of the old "Agassiz Association."
In those days we were reading "Kenilworth" and "Woodstock" and the castellated structure acquired in our minds a quality of mystery and romance. Certain precincts of the building were denied us and an impression gained credence that somewhere in the edifice, the plan of which we never fathomed, were secret rooms, passages and staircases. Certainly if ghosts walked anywhere the place where you would be most likely to find them was on some Hallowe'en midnight among these relics of the past. But we never got in at midnight—in fact nothing could have persuaded us to attempt such an entry.
More mature experience removed something of the mystery, but the charm never entirely vanished. It came, however, to be exercised in different ways. Perhaps it was necessary during vacations to supplement college reading by the use of the historical society's library, then installed in the delightful quarters that had been the first home of the Watkinson collection. In many ways it seems a pity that this old library, with its oak bookshelves, arranged in alcoves, its galleries and delightful little staircases, has been abandoned for modern, but less atmospheric quarters. It was a charming room and the only place of its kind in the state, except the old library at Yale, the proposed alteration of which recently created such a storm of opposition.
It was discovered, however, that the newer and larger Watkinson Library also offered a quiet refuge when one wanted to study or read without interruption. Here, too, were and still are alcoves, galleries and staircases, but loftier, more imposing and triumphant than in the intimate and friendly and older library. The main room of the Watkinson is, however, an alluring spot where one may escape from the financial implications of the immediate environment into a world with which money and business have little to do.
Increasing years brought an interest in the old portraits. Our childhood acquaintance with the pictorial features of the Atheneum was chiefly confined to Trumbull's paintings of the Revolutionary battles. These seemed to us at the time perfect representations of what really happened at Bunker Hill, Princeton and Quebec. But the inevitable development of a more catholic artistic sense led us to dwell with a growing interest on the work of some of the great masters displayed in the art gallery. With these the portraits of state and local worthies in the historical society's rooms could not compete very successfully from the standpoint of workmanship, but these local portraits acquired a new importance as the story of the state and the old town took its place in our enlarging appreciation of relative values. At least we could gather from them some idea of what the people looked like who had walked the streets where we had played as children and who had taken their parts in the building of the city, the state and the nation.
THE WATKINSON LIBRARY
We heard the story of Elizabeth Whitman and the portraits of her father and mother became something more than merely faded old pictures. Oliver Ellsworth was no longer only a name—there he was, sitting at a table with his wife, his familiar house visible in the distance. And when curiosity grew as to Daniel Wadsworth, the founder of the Atheneum, we were able to satisfy this in some degree by hunting up the two portraits of him—one as a boy, leaning on his father's shoulder, the other Ingham's painting of him in middle life.
ii
It is strange that so little has been written about Daniel Wadsworth. He was the original Maecenas of Hartford. But he had no Horace to celebrate him and he would have abhorred the publicity which the Roman patron of the arts and letters seems rather to have enjoyed. His modesty is well illustrated by the fact that he requested that Dr. Hawes should at his funeral services attempt no formal eulogy, in the fashion of the day. He died at ten minutes past one on the morning of July 28, 1848, a few days before his seventy-seventh birthday. Though he lived to this advanced age his health was always frail and this fact may account, in part, for his rather retiring disposition.
He was, however, by no means a recluse. His home, altered, but still standing at the southwest corner of Prospect Street and Atheneum Street—formerly "Wadsworth's Alley,"—now laboring under the alliterative title of "Atheneum Annex," was the center of a simple and delightful social life. In its notice of Mr. Wadsworth after his death the "Courant" said of this home that it "has remained for half a century a scene of cheerful hospitality, where persons of humble worth as well as those of distinction, have been received with kindness and courtesy, and cheered by the unclouded sunshine of Mrs. Wadsworth's benevolence and lovely manners."
Mrs. Wadsworth was the daughter of the second Governor Trumbull. "Her mind," says Dr. Hawes, in the funeral sermon which in his wife's case Mr. Wadsworth did not prohibit, "was sprightly, inquisitive, well-balanced and excellently cultivated; her temper was uncommonly mild, affectionate and cheerful, often exhibiting a pleasant playfulness of spirit, enlivening conversation and intercourse, but never light, censorious or severe; her heart replete with tenderness, and alive to every social and sympathetic feeling." She died two years before her husband. Their married life extended over fifty-three years.
After her death a Miss Sarah McClellan, who seems to have been a connection of Mrs. Wadsworth, appeared in the character of secretary for Mr. Wadsworth, who was very feeble during the last two years of his life. She kept a diary, now in the possession of the Connecticut Historical Society, through which we get contemporary glimpses of the kindly life of the old street, though most of the references are in the nature of a catalogue of visits paid and received, such as,—
"Jan. 1, 1848. Received a beautiful book as a New Year's present from Mrs. Sigourney . . . Judge Ellsworth, Doctor Grant, Mr. Clair [Clerc?] and Mr. Barnard called in the morning. P. M. Judge Williams, Mr. Smith [Alfred?], Mr. Roswell and John Parsons called. Went down to see Mrs. Hudson—found her better."
On another occasion she records how Dr. Grant brought to the house four children, aged from nine to thirteen, known as the "Apollonians," who were to give a concert in the evening and who sang to Mr. Wadsworth at his home as he was not well enough to attend the concert. After they had left Miss McClellan went to Dr. Grant's "and took a galvanic shock for my painful arm."
The most valuable part of the diary historically, however, relates to the last illness of Mr. Wadsworth and his death on a night of midsummer thunderstorms, and this is rather long and rather intimate for quotation.
In fact most of our knowledge of the founder of the Atheneum comes more from memories and traditions than from exact data. These legends picture him as a fragile man with a stoop, fond of wearing even in the house, an artist's cap and a cloak, partly to protect himself from drafts, of which he had an exaggerated dread, partly, we fancy, to exemplify in his person his artistic ideals.
DANIEL WADSWORTH
BY PERMISSION OF
THE CONNECTICUT HISTORICAL SOCIETY
For art was his great interest in life and his wealth enabled him to gratify his artistic inclinations and to perpetuate in the city he loved a center for the humanities which to him seemed so far above riches. In a way he was a cosmopolitan, for he had been educated in France and England, accompanying his father, Jeremiah Wadsworth, there when he was twelve years old. Many of the paintings and prints, of which he was an inveterate collector, came from Europe—as most examples of good art then did.
He was himself an illustrator and painter. The illustrations of his friend's—Professor Benjamin Silliman's—"Tour From Hartford to Quebec," are by him and they include two views of his beautiful country seat, "Monte Video," on Talcott Mountain. It is characteristic of Professor Silliman's regard for what were doubtless his friend's wishes that Mr. Wadsworth's name is not mentioned in his description of the spot. We know of at least one home, and there are probably several, where attractive and interesting sketches and paintings by Mr. Wadsworth are still cherished.
As the years increased upon him the care of his health seems to have become something of a pre-occupation. It is related that he had a series of capes of differing colors and sizes which he superimposed one upon another, as the weather grew colder, attracting thus considerable attention in his walks abroad. In his big yellow coach he installed a stove in cold weather, and a smoke-stack, which may have caused our fellow citizens of that day to wonder whether they were beholding a steamboat on wheels—or even a motor vehicle of the period. Into his pew in the southwest corner of the Center Church he invariably had a foot stove carried when attending service in winter.
Looking back through the years the life of his time seems to have had a more friendly and neighborly element than our urgent affairs today appear to permit. Perhaps there is something of fancy in this, but it is not all fancy to believe that in the institution that bears his name Daniel Wadsworth has transmitted to succeeding generations a flavor and memory of this old life, as well as an opportunity to know the refreshment of certain things that can not be measured in money—the things of the mind and the spirit.
iii
On the whole, the portion of the Atheneum that was the most popular with the children of an older day, and became through familiarity the least mysterious, was the reading room. In retrospect this room seems to have had a distinct quality of its own. For one thing it appears, in memory, to have been characterized by a pervading aroma of wet umbrellas, rubbers and damp clothing. Probably this is due to the fact that one generally frequented it on rainy days when out-of-door pursuits were impossible. Somebody was always opening a window to let in a little air.
At that time the room was in the northeast corner of the main building. Its chief furnishings were the many rows of oak reading desks, shaped like inverted V's, raised on standards to a convenient height. To these slanting surfaces the papers were clamped by wooden contrivances which materially interfered with a comprehensive view of all double page pictures.
Nevertheless one rather approved of these old oak reading desks. They gave a studious air to the room and separated the floor space into sections that contributed a certain effect of privacy. Also they concealed the upper portions of readers on opposite sides, or in different sections, from one another. It was rather diverting to peek underneath and endeavor to construct mentally from the shoes, trousers and skirts—they were long enough in those days—thus visible, the respectively corresponding upper sections of anatomy. After a creative effort of this kind it was interesting to move around to the other side and see how nearly right you were.
On the whole the English illustrated papers were the most popular of the periodicals and sometimes in the attempt to secure exclusive possession of these there was a good deal of squabbling which had to be terminated by the young woman in charge, who, however, was reasonably tolerant and far more popular than the dragon who guarded the historical museum upstairs.
The first real war any of us remembered was then in progress and the "Illustrated London News" and the London "Graphic" were full of pictures of British warships bombarding Alexandria and of charging Highlanders at Tel-el-Kebir. Though soon supplanted by our own "Life," "Punch," too, was something of a favorite, with its drawings by Du Maurier of tall, wasp-waisted, beautiful ladies with remarkable coiffures and trailing skirts, and of men with Dundreary whiskers, frock coats, top hats and monocles—all engaged in what seemed to us singularly inane conversation. Most of us had "St. Nicholas" at home and of the other American publications "Harper's Young People" easily held first place, with "Harper's Weekly" a close second. The girls were often discovered poring over "Harper's Bazaar"—an inexplicable thing to the masculine mind. That seemed to us a silly paper.
In time certain habitués of the reading room became familiar to us—by sight, that is. There was, of course, the nondescript crowd of persons out of employment, or idlers, who came in to get warm or to pass an hour or two. These were the floating population, as it were, and the individuals varied with the seasons. Some of them seemed to be searching the advertising columns of the dailies for a job. Others read strange technical papers—engineering magazines or trade journals. One has often wondered since what perennial hopes, what latent ambitions, what undiscovered geniuses, were concealed amid this rather drab clientele of the reading room.
But that some definite purposes animated certain devotees could not be doubted—though what the exact individual motives were was not always apparent. There was, for example, the queer old man—short, stocky, with gray beard and spectacles—whose specialty seemed to be the New York papers and the political and economic magazines. He was generally supposed to be a little "off" and he had Doctor Johnson's habit when walking along the street of tapping with his stick every post and tree he passed. If he abstractedly missed one he would go back and rap it. We often noticed unkind urchins of our own age following him and reminding him of any omissions, for the intense joy of seeing him invariably return and perform this rite. Let us hope that none of us attempted this, though it can not be asserted that the temptation was always resisted, even if no memory of succumbing to it remains.
Then there was another frequenter of the reading room who was generally supposed to be not quite normal mentally. He was a kindly, gentle soul, however, and it is pleasant to remember that he was never the subject of ridicule. Indeed his deprecating manner, his invariable courtesy, even to children, effectually disarmed any suggestion of the sort. We all liked him and perhaps he did not dislike us. He would come softly in, with bent head and humble air, put his umbrella in the rack, look about to ascertain what favorite papers of his had not been pre-empted, slide with the effect of an apology into some empty place, put on his spectacles, get out his note book and pencil and begin to transcribe. During each of his visits he was continually taking notes and the imagination is appalled at any effort to compute the number of note books he must have filled, for he was a constant visitor. The occupation was of course an obsession, a phase, no doubt, of various mental vagaries he harbored. Probably as children we missed something of the pathos of the fine mind thus clouded, but it is a comfort to remember that we did not altogether fail in appreciation of the spirit of the gentleman.
There comes dimly to memory the figure of a rather elderly woman who wore an old-fashioned bonnet and rather odd clothing of a bygone style. She was a busy person, flitting from paper to paper, forever in quest of some apparently elusive data. It seemed to be necessary for her to hold frequent consultations with the attendant. These were carried on, for her part, in loud, hissing whispers that were far more penetrating and distracting than ordinary conversation would have been and the good-natured presiding genius of the room spent much of her time looking up references for this curious and acquisitive visitor. What she was seeking we never knew, but, though it was manifestly of the utmost importance to her, one could not escape the impression of futility. Surely a public reference or reading room is an excellent place in which to study the caprices of the human mind.
This person's audible conferences with the attendant bring to mind the notice that was prominently posted in various parts of the room,—
Loud Talking or Prolonged
Conversation Will Not Be
Allowed In This Room
Now that the statute of limitations has barred civil, if not criminal proceedings, the writer will confess that some years later, when an undergraduate of Yale College, he abstracted, after the unoriginal fashion of his kind, one of these notices and took great pride in displaying it in a prominent place on the wall of his room at college where its apt and ironic message aroused great envy and admiration.
But to return to our memories of the reading room's habitués—there was Cousin George. This vicarious relative was an unattached Congregational minister who sojourned in the city from time to time. The nomadic character of his ministry was due partly to principle, partly to a kind of wanderlust. In this old bachelor there was a wandering streak—he was not happy for long in one place. But he had a strong social instinct and a keen interest in and affection for his friends and was greatly beloved by them. A great purveyor of news, he was an insatiable reader of the papers and toward the middle of the morning he invariably came into the reading room, as into a club, to look through the news of the day. His soft, black hat, overcoat with short shoulder cape, eyeglasses with black ribbon and mutton-chop whiskers gave a distinct individuality to his appearance. About his looks there was an effect of oddity—and indeed, like most of us, he had his whimseys and peculiarities. There was little externally to indicate his kindly sympathy, his talent for friendship, his thoughtfulness for others, particularly for the sick. For that reason, doubtless, it was not until maturer years that that side of his character fully dawned on one. There was nothing to denote this in the picture of him, seated in a good reading light, in one corner of the room, his cape-overcoat thrown back on his shoulders, his thin legs crossed, absorbed in last night's "New York Evening Post."
Like the others we have mentioned he will never come to the reading room again. Did they, we wonder, surmise that certain small eyes were observing them, that certain youthful personalities were conferring about them, that certain immature minds were striving to grasp what manner of men and women they were? Truly memories of us all may live long in unsuspected places.